Dear Sirs,—Noting that this correspondence is transferred to you, I
venture to think that I can subscribe interesting matter for the
subject.
Born seventy-three years ago and passing my early youth in the
country, it will be understood that story telling was a regular
feature of spending evenings, and the “ghostly” variety was very
prevalent, so much that my young mind was saturated with that
nonsense, and to such an extent that life for me after the passing of
daylight was a burden. In the dark I fancied seeing ghostly shapes
and hearing ghostly sounds everywhere. An elder sister who was
similarly affected and, to some extent, my mother, were the only
persons who knew of my sufferings, as I would have been subject to
ridicule from others, who, however, no doubt had a touch of the
disease themselves. I remember my mother hushing the “entertainer”
when children were present, and trying to divert the talk into other
channels.
Then happily came the cure. Somehow a book came into my hand
(probably borrowed by me or for me). I do not remember its title. It
may have been “Ghosts Laid Bare,” “The Inexplicable Explained,” or
“Common Sense Versus Superstition.” It was ghost stories again, just
as I had heard them (with variation) and quite in line with what the
otherwise generally intelligent Daily News has been serving us, but
with this difference, that after each tale a natural explanation of
it was given. It must have been done very well, fully intelligible
for my about thirteen years’ mind. The effect was remarkable. I saw
how I had been fooled, and to my intense relief was cured of all
fear.
You will therefore understand that unless your intended book of Ghost
Stories or Uncanny Incidents is to be on the same line, that is an
anti-dose after each dose of poison, I for one condemn it in advance.
I note that it is not all “real” ghost stories, “The Silken Ghost,”
for example, with its explanations on the line of what I have said of
the cure book. “The Picture in the Fire” also, but that is so
evidently “made up” that it has no place anywhere, least of all among
the prize winners.
As to footsteps on the stairs and “mysterious” slamming of doors, I
have heard that often as it happens in my own house, but prefer to
believe they come from the adjoining house and in a natural manner
rather than in the ghost inventor's ways. And why should ghosts
necessarily make noises—and ordinary, natural, commonplace noises to
boot?
So please stop frightening our children. Leave the ghost culture to
the savages, where they originate, and if occasions occur give them a
hand to get over that damned superstition. Yours truly, W. C.
This was not meant for publication, but why not? I am sure it is far
superior to anything else that will appear in your book and ought to
have first prize.
The following story is true, down to the minutest detail. One night I
had a dream and saw an angel bending over me and folding his wings in
a protective manner about my sleeping form. So vivid was the dream
that I awoke—not altogether in dread because the face and posture of
the angel held nothing but kindness, love and protection.
When I awoke, however, the vision did not fade just at once, and I
made a cry of awe and, probably, of fear. This awoke my husband and
he gently reassured me and soothed me, and, not to disturb him
further, I calmed myself to sleep, determined to say nothing of my
dream till next day.
After lunch on the following day, therefore, when we were having our
customary half-hour's rest and chat, I opened the subject of the
dream, and was about to relate it when he stopped me, saying he was
sure he had seen my dream, and begged me to let him relate the dream
first. I did so, and was much amazed that he had seen my dream
exactly as I had done, and could relate the appearance and attitude
of the angel in every particular. Did either of us think we had seen
a ghost or apparition? Neither of us thought so.
The truth of the matter was that my dream had been so vivid and real
that even after I awoke the impression of the vision was still on my
brain and took a little time to fade away, and my husband's sympathy
was so alive to my distress, and his mind as much in tune with mine,
that my mind, as it were, photographed to his mind the vision which I
saw.
Such happenings as these are merely scientific, not supernatural; but
in this case both my husband and myself would probably think we had
seen a ghost had it not been that our education had led us into
scientific studies in face of which we knew we had not seen a ghost.
The present day vogue in spiritualism and kindred subjects, which
shows the God of Love and the Creator of the Universe as a
small-minded creature who amuses Himself frightening us poor mortals,
is nothing but pure ignorance, and deserves to be put down as such.
To try to get into touch with the Almighty by such trickery, for
instance, as table-rapping, is simply blasphemy.
I do not believe in ghosts, except as the result of our own
imaginations. In “Hamlet” (Act III., Scene IV.), when the ghost
enters, only Hamlet sees it. His mother, the Queen, not seeing it,
thinks him mad. That ghost is merely one conjured up by Hamlet's
imagination. By continually thinking about, and brooding over, the
fact that he has not yet avenged his father's murder, the accusing
ghost appears to him. After he has explained matters to his mother,
she rightly says: “This is the very coinage of your brain, this
bodiless creation.” Similarly, Brutus alone is visited by the ghost
of Caesar. Only Macbeth sees the ghost of Banquo in his place at the
table, and says, “The table's full.” Lennox, with surprise, replies,
“Here's a place reserved, sir.”
During my lifetime I have seen only one of these ghosts of the
imagination. During the last year of the Great War (I was only eight
years old), there were many horrible stories in circulation among my
schoolfellows about the Kaiser. What an effect they had on my
imagination! I could go nowhere in the dark alone. Even when
accompanied, I saw awful phantoms: sometimes bold and prominent,
sometimes misty and indistinct, but always with spiked helmets—and
always Kaisers! As soon as it grew dark my life was a perfect misery.
I was thankful I did not sleep alone. When the war ended these ghosts
gradually faded and, again, I could venture in the dark alone!
I am sure that people imagine the ghosts they see in lonely woods and
on lonely heaths. The weird noises they hear are natural—perhaps
magnified by their imaginations. Even when not magnified, the sighing
and shrieking of the wind in the trees and the mournful hootings of
the owl are very eerie!
I am only a working woman, and not highly educated, but I feel I must
put a pen to your ghost problem. Well, I don't believe in them; there
are none. Would any sensible person, having lost their dearest and
best, like to feel their spirits were not at rest? Why, Flanders
field would be white with ghosts. I believe that nervous people often
fancy they see things, as I have proved, having lost a dear sister,
whose mind became unbalanced through a nervous breakdown. She used to
tell us all sorts of things she saw, but, thank God, we have never
seen her ghost. But I believe there are times when we are downcast and
warned by a kind of telepathy of impending illness or death among
dear ones, but only at times. I have proved this also. No, sir, no
Christian people believe in ghosts.
Many years ago I was helping my father to build a house, on the side
of a main road, near a large village in Lincolnshire. It was early
autumn, and the house was nearing completion. A workman was left in
charge during the night, but on one occasion, owing to the sudden
illness of his wife, he was unable to fulfil his duty, and I elected
to remain and take charge. It was a beautiful night, and the moon was
in full. I had made a fire in a middle room, and by the light from a
candle, I read through an interesting novel by Harrison Ainsworth. I
looked at the time: it was close on midnight. I blew out the light
and closed my eyes, the happenings which I had just read in the novel
rapidly passing through my mind. The silence was intense: the
loneliness complete. Suddenly I was startled by a crash and the sound
of falling glass on the front-room floor. Feeling sure that someone
passing had hurled a broken brick through one of the large bay-window
panes, I rushed upstairs, and from one of the windows which
overlooked the road, and from which a long distance could be seen
both ways, I looked to see in which direction the culprit had gone.
Not a soul was to be seen; not a sound was to be heard! Then I went
to inspect the damage. Every pane was intact, and there was not a
fragment of glass on the floor!
Later in life, I have found, on more than one occasion, what tricks
one’s imagination and thoughts can play; how they can conjure up
pictures, and faces and forms, not only of those we know, but of
those we have known, which the eyes, acting in unison, will, under
varying circumstances, place momentarily before you. The writer
“Norfolk,” in your issue of the 17th inst., had this experience when
he saw the face at the window.
No, I do not believe in ghosts!